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How close does the dragon’s spume
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Lift, wind, my exile from my eyes;
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we were cured—had advanced
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The train whistle still wails its ancient sound
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We must admit there will be music despite everything.
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Say goodbye to disaster. Shake hands
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it must have been that I was drowsing, I’d been tired all day long.
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Sometimes I think I understand the way things work
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No horizon-honing here, no angst in the anthill.
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The soprano faints rather than hitting that highest